by Dee Brice
Diane gave a sniff of disbelief, knowing how fragile any surviving documents were—if they even existed. Still, as reasons went for choosing them… Hell, she would have chosen them no matter what. Cover hunks sold books.
Would they try to find her? Did she want them not only to try but actually do it? Should she contact them?
She had the perfect reason. Thanking them for posing, congratulating them for raising so much money for her cancer research project. But what if they were married?
Where’d that idea come from? She didn’t want a relationship…did she? Of course not.
Liar, liar, pants on fire.
That much rang true. Just looking at their picture on her computer screen made her ache all over, especially her breasts and pussy.
Tempted to retrieve the printed copy of her book cover so she could gaze at them for hours, she pushed away from her desk and headed for her bathroom. She wanted a long, hot shower and refused to chance that cover returning her to the past.
When—if—she ever met the men again she’d do it on her terms, in her own time and place.
She had given herself four months to write her next novel. That should keep her mind off those two.
How can it, dummy? The story’s all about them.
* * * * *
Five months later
Wow! her editor had emailed after seeing some advance reviews. Don’t know what you did, but your writing sure improved, making the wait worthwhile.
Diane grinned at her computer screen, a brief moment of celebration for her latest release, the book about Diane de Vesay. Softened, of course, to make her heroine likeable and heroic when she saved her husband’s mistresses and their children from the fire set by the villainous Duke de Beaumont. Why she’d cast Walker as the villain she had no idea. Perhaps because he looked unscrupulous and wicked. More likely because he’d directed the in flagrante delicto scenario with Adrian to force her to marry the earl. But just as likely because he kept his emotions hidden. Emotions or secrets? A mystery she would never solve unless she went back in time.
No way, no day. One journey to the past would do her for a lifetime.
Time to start on something new. Problem was Diane had no idea what to write. She had never experienced writer’s block, didn’t know if she had it now. But her muse had taken a hike just when Diane needed her most. Damnation! For all she knew, her muse had gone back to Belleange and was getting all the sex Diane had missed.
When her doorbell rang, she almost jumped out of her skin. Her heartbeat erratic, she took the envelope—complete with some sort of crest and special delivery stamps that all but obliterated her name and address.
“Sign here,” the mailwoman told her, thrusting some electronic thingy into Diane’s hands then staring intently as Diane scribbled her name in the tiny box. Not that much of her name fit. And she really disliked having to scribble when her handwriting was rather elegant and much admired by the recipients of her Christmas cards. The postwoman took back the device, looking from it to Diane as if comparing her face and signature.
“Have a nice day,” Diane said, closing the door before the woman demanded to see some identification. As she wandered toward her office she examined the envelope and wondered why the sender hadn’t just emailed her. Still, she couldn’t help admiring the quality of the paper and the bold hand that had written her name. Looking for a return address, she flipped the envelope over.
Belleange Castle all but leaped off the flap, the sight of the wax seal making her heart renew its erratic beat. She braced her hand on the wall as she stumbled into her office then collapsed into her chair.
Another hallucination? Couldn’t be—unless she’d also hallucinated a mail carrier and all her accessories.
“Well,” she told herself, “open it.”
She wanted to but something prevented her. Maybe that same don’t go into the basement feeling gothic heroines always ignored. Or maybe the fear of somebody suing her over things she’d written about Diane de Vesay. Impossible, since the book hadn’t been released to the public yet.
Her hands shaking, she used her opener, then took the letter from its envelope. Skipping the salutation, she focused on the body.
A friend at your publishing house sent me an advance copy of your book. I enjoyed it and want to meet the author. Please call so I can arrange your transportation. Would come for you myself, but business keeps me here a while longer.
Adrian de Vesay
Flummoxed, she dropped the letter on her desk and stared at it. A joke. Somebody was playing a joke on her. Maybe her agent, but more likely her editor—hoping to kick-start Diane into writing the next book. Which she couldn’t write because she hadn’t a clue what to write.
But wasn’t meeting Adrian in the here and now what she wanted?
What about Walker?
Having cast him in an unflattering light, did she want to risk him confronting her for her choices?
Borrowing trouble, Diane. Unless he remembered the past… Ridiculous. Just because she’d gone back in time didn’t mean the men had.
She wanted to see Belleange again. See how Adrian’s ancestors had rebuilt it, added to it, remodeled it. Her hardening nipples and heating pussy had nothing to do with her excitement.
Arousal, a niggling voice murmured in her brain.
She ignored it and went to get her passport.
* * * * *
Leaving from the West Coast, the flight over the polar route to Heathrow took eight long hours.
Now standing in front of the official who kept looking from her passport to her face, she wanted to get in his face. Tell him to stamp the bloody page and let her through the bloody gate. His attitude reminded her of the mail carrier, which tempted her to tell him she had no other identification. Which, having left her driver’s license at home, was true.
Adding to her sense of never being allowed into England, she had the unfortunate habit of falling into speech patterns of those she talked with. So she was sounding more and more like a Yorkshire native than an American. That’s when another official whispered something in her examiner’s ear. The man eyed her with even greater suspicion, but stamped her passport and waved her through the narrow opening that led to baggage claim and the outside world.
And there they were—both Adrian and Walker. Adrian waving a sign with her name on it—as if she wouldn’t recognize two of the most handsome men she’d ever met. Walker, looking disgruntled, had a bouquet of flowers filling his arms.
Sweet heaven, they’re even more handsome than I remembered! Adrian’s hair seemed a little darker blond, his eyes even more impossibly blue. Walker, however, looked even more intimidating, his black eyes seeming to gauge her every heartbeat as she debated whether to stay or run for her life. To hell with him! She wasn’t any more pleased to see him than he was to see her.
She almost did turn around. She shouldn’t have come at all. This whole trip was a journey down a path she should have avoided at all costs. She might remember them, but there was no reason on God’s green earth they should remember her. Unless—impossible though it seemed—they’d all fallen prey to the same invisible time machine and they’d gone back in time as well.
In for a ha’penny, in for a pound, she told herself, holding out her right hand to shake theirs. Adrian bussed her cheeks. Walker smiled that slow, assessing smile that raised her hackles and sent her heartbeat racing. She wished her feet could race too, but they felt rooted to the concrete floor beneath them.
They hustled her to the curb where a car waited. The chauffeur dealt with her luggage. Walker issued a soft command to the driver and off they went. Scenery flew by, leaving her unable to figure out where they were going.
“Tired?” Walker said just when she supposed they wouldn’t say another word until they reached their destination. Wherever that might be.
“A little. I slept between meals.” She looked at Adrian, offering him a small smile. “The flight attendants take really good car
e of first-class passengers. I didn’t realize—”
“You’re welcome,” Walker said before Adrian could utter a word. “Adrian wanted to send the corporate jet, but that would have delayed your arrival even more. The trip to fetch you. The trip back.”
As if she didn’t understand the logistics! And he was just as high-handed as she remembered. Maybe even more so.
“I don’t understand the hurry. Not that I’m complaining,” she added, with a soft laugh to excuse her eagerness. “I can’t wait to see Belleange and find out if I described it accurately.”
The men exchanged glances she couldn’t decipher.
“As it once was, very accurately,” Adrian said at last, his smile not reaching his striking blue eyes.
Walker simply stared at her from the rear-facing seat of the limo. He looked a little like a painting she’d seen of Bacchus after a night of revelry. The god sat propped against a tree trunk while nymphs danced around him, flinging flowers at his head. Bacchus had looked delighted. Walker looked as if he’d found some rare beastie in his wine and wanted to toss it out the window.
“We’re taking the train to Yorkshire,” Walker said, setting the bouquet aside while he continued perusing her face.
“Thought you might like to stretch your legs a bit after your long trip.” Adrian seemed like an overeager host striving to make her feel at ease. Which had just the opposite effect. Her nerves began to send unpleasant thoughts along her limbs. Flight-or-fight impulses flooded her blood with adrenaline.
“Your letter led me to believe… I thought we’d stay in London for a day or two.” Damnation, even her voice sounded tense. “I brought very little clothing with me.”
“I’m sure we’ll find something to fit you,” Adrian assured her, clasping her hand then placing it on his thigh.
“I don’t know what game this is, gentlemen, but I don’t want to play.” She pulled free.
“Then why did you come?”
The looks they gave her invited her to take off what she wore. Her face heated, but she just felt embarrassed. Sure. Her nipples always hardened when she embarrassed herself. Her juices always flooded her panties when men stripped her naked with their eyes. Boy, was she a pushover when it came to these two.
The limousine rolled to a stop in front of the train station, affording her the chance to avoid a response. On a sigh of relief, she exited the car.
* * * * *
They’d held the train. Whoever now controlled the London to Edinburgh trains had held the one Diane boarded with her escorts. But then, with two members of the House of Lords embarking, why should she even imagine having to wait for another departure? They hurried her along the platform, giving her neither time nor breath to ask questions.
Not only had they held the train, they’d attached a private car at the end. Diane eyed the sumptuous furniture, draperies and chandeliers and wondered aloud what damage the car might encounter were it slip-coached as they did in the past—when trains first became an accepted mode of travel.
Old-time steam engines could get the cars up a hill—albeit with some difficulty—but stopping on the downhill slope was nigh impossible. Passengers debarking at the first station loaded into the last car. Nearing the depot, the car was cut loose from the rest of the train and sort of coasted down. She’d never found statistics as to how many people were injured or killed in those days.
“In case you’re worrying about our arrival, our systems have improved since the early days of rail,” Adrian told her, taking her voluminous purse from her as he guided her to a plush, upholstered chair near one window.
“We even have brakes now,” Walker said, sitting across from her.
She ran her hands over the inlaid parquetry tabletop, saying, “This reminds me of the Orient Express. Of pictures I’ve seen of it, I mean.”
Both men grinned.
“It’s a car we had refurbished.”
“We use it for tours,” Adrian added, as if that should make things clearer.
“What do you two do?” she asked, puzzled by what they weren’t saying. “I know you have hotels on your estates but…I don’t suppose they support you as they once did.” And the death taxes in the United Kingdom were notoriously killing for the heirs. She should have paid more attention to their website, read more about their partnership. A useless wish now.
“Not in the same lifestyle. But yes, they do support us still.”
Walker grimaced, then sent her a rueful grin. “We operate tours. Ones that include tourists staying a week or more in our ancestral homes.”
“Living as people lived. Dressing as people dressed in those times.”
“Y-you mean…that’s why we’re not shopping in London? There are clothes—costumes at Belleange?” They nodded. “So when are we living?” This time, she added to herself.
“Regency era,” Adrian said, his eyes dancing with mischief that made her spirits sink.
“No indoor plumbing?” she mumbled. “I mean…”
When Adrian just shrugged, Walker took the conversation in hand. “That’s the one exception. You Yanks demand modern plumbing in every room and—since your countrymen are our best customers—we provide it.”
“Thank God,” she said before she noticed they were still smiling at her in a disturbing way. She recognized those smiles—remembered all too well their invitation to sin.
“You needn’t worry, Diane,” Walker said, going to a built-in sideboard with an array of liquor bottles on the marble top.
“You’ll have a couple of days to recover from jetlag.” Adrian assured her, once more looking eager to please. In their previous life he’d behaved like that, willing to do whatever pleased her. Giving her whatever she wanted. Her gaze flicked to Walker, rekindling her animosity toward him. Walker was, after all, Adrian’s liege. Walker seemed more an opportunist, willing to prey on those too weak to fight back. Just as she portrayed them in her novel.
Hmm. Following Walker’s lead put Adrian in a less flattering light.
“Don’t forget her fittings. After all, the Countess of Belleange must look her best when our guests arrive.”
She bristled. Did Walker expect her to earn her keep? Adrian had invited her, after all. But acting the part of a countess could be fun—as long as it was only for Adrian’s guests and not for him alone. Like iron to a magnet, her gaze again darted to Walker.
He picked up a tray with three highball glasses and a crystal decanter of amber-colored liquid, then brought it to the table where she and Adrian sat. With an indecipherable smile Walker poured two-fingers of peat-scented liquor into each glass. “To your next book, Diane. May your readers enjoy it as much as they will the newest one.”
Left with no choice but to toast her own success, she took a careful sniff. Her nostrils and eyes burned, but she drank anyway. The tiny sip went down like silk, then spread warmth like a heating pad pressed to her chest and stomach. Though she willed it away, a smile curved her lips and she relaxed into her chair.
“Good, eh?” Adrian said, looking pleased by her reaction.
Walker cocked one ebony brow, a knowing smile on his lips. Without asking, he added more scotch to each of their glasses.
“It’s too early in the day for drink this strong,” she argued lightly, taking a more generous sip.
“Somewhere in the world—” Walker began.
“The sun is over the yardarm,” Adrian finished, as if he often used that as an excuse to imbibe.
She pursed her lips in disapproval. She didn’t know how many generations had preceded him, but this Adrian seemed to have staggered into Arnaud’s drunken footsteps. “Do you also support a mass of mistresses?” she sniped before she thought to keep quiet.
He grinned, much the way that twelfth-century Adrian grinned. When he looked over her shoulder, she turned to look, as well, catching lustful heat in Walker’s fathomless eyes.
Sweet heaven! Had they changed that much over the centuries since she first met them? Were t
hey now…each other’s lover?
Walker watched as an obviously distasteful idea widened Diane’s eyes. Then she lowered her head, her dark lashes hiding her emerald-green eyes and whatever unpleasant thoughts chased through her mind. Adrian frowned at him before shrugging and reaching for her hand. She flinched, yet let Adrian raise her hand to his lips, pulling away only when he turned it palm up.
So, Walker thought, her palms are as susceptible as her heroine’s. What other parts of her lush body might prove even more susceptible to a gentle caress? A tender kiss? He suddenly wished their paying guests would not arrive for another week or more. Two days offered only time enough to begin her seduction. But then, all seductions began in the mind. As with hypnosis, the more resistant the mind, the more easily the spell was cast.
* * * * *
Exiting the Bentley that had met them in York, Diane stared up and up. Up close, the structure impressed her even more than its pictures had. Two of the old square towers soared above the Tudor wings. Symmetry revealed its Georgian additions.
“It seems impossible,” she said, at last looking at the men, “that such a mismatch works so well. Does everything connect? Can I literally walk through history?”
“Y-y-yesss,” they said together, their voices shaking as violently as the ground. They grabbed her arms, making her wonder who was steadying whom.
Sweet heaven, not again! she prayed, with little hope of having her prayer answered. Not when both Walker and Adrian wore the doublets and baggy, pleated trunk hose worn in Tudor times. Not when she wore a fur-lined cape, its hood drawn over her head to protect her from a blustery mid-March wind and long skirts blew around her legs. Cursing herself for her own stupidity, she recalled some Shakespearean character warning Caesar to beware the Ides of March. All she wanted was an opportunity to research Belleange—not relive its entire history! And why in bloody blue blazes were they in this time period? They’d been headed for Regency England—or so the men had claimed.
